


"Postscript: Village Idiot"

by SunderedAndUndone



Series: The Dialogues [3]
Category: The Dark Crystal (1982), The Dark Crystal: Age of Resistance (TV)
Genre: Banter, Enemies to Friends, Fluffy Ending, Gen, Roommates, Worldbuilding, references to head/brain injuries and sequelae
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-18 22:21:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22734115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunderedAndUndone/pseuds/SunderedAndUndone
Summary: In which an UrRu cannot even go on a simple shopping trip without coming home to some Skeksis drama. [Set after the main events of "The Dialogues of SkekGra & Urgoh," soon after their exile to the Circle of the Suns. Y'all, this is about as soft as I get. ^^]Also: In which the Heretic knows *perfectly well* what kind of first impression they give.
Relationships: skekGra & urGoh (Dark Crystal)
Series: The Dialogues [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1616017
Comments: 7
Kudos: 18





	"Postscript: Village Idiot"

A couple unum into their exile at the Circle of the Suns, the Wanderer had finally begun to feel that a few things were settling into some kind of rhythm, which was a consolation. As much as both they and their counterpart, the Heretic, craved novelty and adventure—and as depressing as it was to contemplate how little of that they’d be getting thenceforth—UrGoh was still a Mystic, enamored of cycles that could be tracked and counted on.

One cycle they could count on was the routes and schedules of the Dousan caravans. Soon after taking possession of the Crystal Sea the Dousan had realized, or perhaps been taught by the Skeksis, that the dunes of their desert were as fluid and featureless as the vast oceans that the Sifa roamed, and so they should find their way as Sifa did, by the stars and suns and moons. Stonewood, Vapra, and Spriton had it somewhat easier, navigating by landmarks and ancient roads; Grottan by turns and twists in their labyrinth of tunnels—also sometimes by smell or the planting of luminescent fungus; and Drenchen…well, UrGoh still wasn’t quite sure how the Drenchen made any sense of the Swamp of Sog. But whatever their method, it worked excellently. It might help to be a swimmer. If the Wanderer ever saw UrSan again, perhaps they would ask about that.

If.

In any case, the caravans were the lifeblood of the Crystal Sea. Dozens of outposts, villages, and mines, not to mention Swothel and Skimmer farms, literally couldn’t carry on without frequent shipments; so strict adherence to the calendar was important. One saving grace of the Circle’s otherwise desolate position in the desert’s interior was that it sat reasonably close to several traditional crossroads. Those crossroads were marked as caravansaries by colorful spires tall enough to escape being buried in sand (though with entrance doors in a line halfway up their height, just in case)—tall enough to be used for mirror-signals, as well. UrGoh had already found a few caves and niches near the towers that could be secluded, relatively cool spots from which to watch for the caravans with their old spyglasses. They might even keep a few amphorae of water buried at each.

Trading for supplies unavoidably meant the risk and joy of showing oneself to the Gelfling. That made it far safer for UrGoh, who wasn’t under a _formal_ sentence of banishment, to handle the task. They would be careful to vary which crossroads they visited when. That way, hopefully, the Dousan would know the Mystic existed, but not where they lived. Neither the Wanderer nor the Heretic expected the Gelfling of that clan to pose a threat, especially given their dread of the Circle and its “air of death”—still, both halves agreed it was better to stay hidden from the Lords of the Crystal for as long as possible. Skeksis had vowed never to kill Skeksis, but they weren’t wonderful at keeping vows. The other wanderers of the UrRu could probably be trusted to visit; whether they could be _persuaded_ by anything on Thra to do so was another question entirely.

This supply trip had been fruitful. In addition to food, cloth, flexible reeds for crafting furniture, and a bellows for the little forge they were building, the Wanderer had acquired their favorite leaf for the water pipe, as well as some of the polished fossil beads the Heretic was using to adorn their new, off-white… _mostly_ un-Skeksis-like robes.

Best of all, however, were the small jar of nut-butter balm and the bag of smoky-smelling spices. This was something SkekGra had to their inordinate preening discovered they could _do_. And it was already abundantly clear that what they ironically called their “retirement” would be far less harrowing, for them and the Wanderer both, the more they had to _do_.

All right, it wasn’t only preening: UrGoh knew the ex-Conqueror felt (mostly correctly) that UrGoh was better at tending to them when they needed care than the reverse—though their cooking really _was_ more than decent, even on the vegetable dishes. Now that their life’s business was all nonviolent, the Skeksis was over-conscious of being poorly equipped to nurture and comfort, of having too many sharp edges. But a rub of those spices, followed by the balm and a sheer cloth wrap, was a time-honored Dousan remedy for aches and stiffness; and SkekGra had recently learned that they could use their knuckles and elbows and sometimes a scrap of Nurloc-rump leather to work miracles with it on the UrRu’s legs and shoulders—which were rarely _not_ gnarled up from their admittedly terrible posture.

Was buying this more a kindness to the Wanderer’s counterpart, then, or to themselves? Should they feel a little selfish? Did questions like that have any meaning anymore?

…More to the point, did hauling goods to the caravansary and back take a _light_ toll on an old Mystic's bones and muscles?

UrGoh was slightly later making it back to the Circle of the Suns than intended, and it was crawling on towards mid-morning when they finally reached the top of the winding, hidden path up.

“SkekGra…” they called over a dry throat as they made ready to come in. “Come…help me...put things away.”

There was no answer, which at first wasn’t worrisome, but as the UrRu trudged through the room with the bags from the travois, eyes slowly adjusting to the dimmer light, they began to wonder. The Skeksis wasn’t cooking, there’d be smoke and scent. They weren’t relieving themselves, or the Wanderer would have already run into them on the way up. They weren’t hammering away at one of the several construction projects going on inside the Circle. This was no time of day to be trying to hunt any of the scant animal life that could be found outside.

Then they heard a bit of noise and muttering coming from just behind the curtain to the sleeping alcove. “Ah,” they said, and pushed it aside with their staff, half expecting to find the Skeksis in the middle of one of their bad dreams—

“What… _are_ you doing?”

* * *

SkekGra, who was sitting on the UrRu’s sleeping frame, half-jumped and snatched the pale piece of cloth off of their head.

“None of our business!” they squawked. Seeing UrGoh’s face they hastily corrected themselves: “My business! —Your business!”

Then they grumbled preemptively. “Shut up. Don’t say it. I get to be mixing up pronouns right now.”

UrGoh smiled, though the smile faded a bit as their eyes traveled to the enormous nail now embedded in the top of the Heretic’s skull. The Skeksis’ speech was indeed confused now and then—though the blurred vision had finally cleared up, and the throbbing was down to a dull roar most days. Checking for seepage and infection remained a regular necessity. UrGoh’s suffering from their own half of the wound was far lighter, but even they still had to be careful when combing their hair.

They didn’t want to signal how worried they still were, so they shrugged and wryly chided, “If…they _can_ be mixed up…anymore.”

“Bah! Cocky UrRu,” snorted the Heretic. “Not _your_ job to get ahead of ourselves. _I’ll_ tell you if we’re about to turn into a pillar of radiance.” They glanced down at the square of starched cloth in their hands, then sighed and looked over at UrGoh’s blankets, piled on the foot-end of the frame. The Wanderer noticed their mirror propped up there, one of the possessions they’d salvaged from their old quarters in the Mystic village, a gift from UrMa. It had a beautifully-carved back, but was ascetically modest in size, and poor SkekGra was having to fold over almost double to get a real view in it. “I’m just trying to—make some kind of—headdress here. But nothing looks right.”

It began to occur to UrGoh both that they were going to be expected to respond to this, and that no response they could compose on the fly had a hope of passing muster.

The Heretic scowled thunderously. “ _Don’t_ say it!”

“…What?”

“You don’t have to say it’s stupid! I know it’s stupid! Who else is here to see besides _you_ , and we all know you’re beyond worldly concerns. But _I’m_ tired of seeing it.”

“Perhaps…less time spent at the mirror, then?” suggested the Wanderer in a tone of soft remonstrance. They came in to sit down beside SkekGra, threading their tail easily through the hollow part of the frame, and nudged the Skeksis’ shoulder with the side of their long snout. “I can do your…paint…if you wish.”

At least, they thought they could. It was a new design, not the Conqueror’s old war-paint, though still rather fearsome-looking to the Mystic. But SkekGra just threw their hands up.

“That won’t help! When you’re looking at it, I’m looking at it. I can _feel_ us looking at it. Shut up.”

They shook their head. “So, it’s either you never look at me again, or I figure out something to wear over it! If we ever finish up that cursed forge I could make a helm, but—it’d be too heavy on the pate…and besides…” They sighed again, desolately, and UrGoh could see what they weren’t going to say: _and besides, helms are what a Conqueror wears, not a Heretic._

Their talons wandered up to the brutish piece of metal. UrGoh was afraid they were going to scratch or tug at it as they occasionally did, but they just cradled it in a protective palm. Even that was enough to send a lance of bright pain flashing across the UrRu’s temples, and they winced.

“Sorry.” The Skeksis winced too, but crashed onward. “And nothing _else_ looks anything but ridiculous!”

They demonstrated, folding the square of cloth into a triangle and tying it under their chin. “Podling grandmother.”

UrGoh nearly chortled—it was phrased as a joke after all—but something fierce in SkekGra’s eyes warned them off.

The Heretic untied the cloth and retied it behind their head-rill, making a sort of pointed chimney of it.

“Gelfling pie-vendor.” (This was even more difficult not to laugh at.)

Finally, they untied it again and whipped it off their head like a lash.

“And my own favorite,” they finished bitterly. “Village idiot.”

Skeksis were cruel, and their cruelty was often without point, but rarely without…cunning. During their brief sojourn at the Castle of the Crystal, UrGoh had learned that the reason they were so skilled at it was they practiced all the time on each other. The spike with its baleful rune was large and heavy not because it had to penetrate the Conqueror’s thick skull, but because it had to destroy their pride. A SkekGra without it would probably have defied their sentence frequently and zestfully. A SkekGra with it didn’t even need to be told to stay out of sight.

The Wanderer put a hand under the Heretic’s chin, bending their neck low until they could meet their other half’s downcast eyes. “SkekGra, you are still…as sharp…as that nail.”

“But who would _think_ that, UrGoh?” SkekGra burst out miserably. “Who’d see this and not think _Why, what kind of lunatic goes around with a spike in their head?? How much brain did_ that _knock out?_ ”

Then they leaned forward onto their knees, pinching and rubbing at their brow-ridge. “…What kind of lunatic marches into the Castle of the Crystal and tries to tell Skeksis they’re wrong about something. I am the village idiot. And I deserve far worse than this.”

UrGoh nuzzled them again, cheek to cheek this time, and put an arm around their waist. “Perhaps we do,” the UrRu conceded quietly. “But this…will be hard enough.”

The Heretic closed their eyes and nodded. “You’re right. I should just—let it go. So what, if we’ll never be anything but some ridiculous raving hermit ever again. Fine.” (It didn’t sound very fine, of course.) “You have advance permission. Laugh at it all you want.”

The Wanderer suddenly sat up, their manner completely changed.

“You…think…I laugh…?”

The Heretic stared. UrGoh went on in the deep and unexpectedly powerful voice they reserved for serious words indeed, “Why don’t you… _ask_ what I see? As you said…we are not one _yet_. We don’t always…know our full mind.”

SkekGra accepted the chastening at once—in these circumstances, usually wise. Their retracting neck and dipping head signaled submission, which wasn’t what UrGoh wanted but would do for the moment. “I didn’t want to know, I guess,” they admitted, and then fell silent, waiting.

The UrRu raised their hand to run a thumb gently along the side of SkekGra’s head-rill and brush back the hair that was still regrowing from being chopped half off at the Castle—feeling, as always, that strange echoing sensation on the skin of their own head. They couldn’t help ruminating a moment on what it meant, that they were now the one source of compassion for a being they'd so long hated as a monstrous criminal. ( _And heretic_ , a gleeful inner voice that sounded very Skeksis reminded them; _wasn’t heresy our crime as fallen UrSkek, didn’t we hate ourselves for that too? Now we’re too heretical even for heretics._ ) GraGoh would have been appalled.

Then again, GraGoh was the one who’d literally broken in two rather than accept their inner darkness, so arguably their lack of self-compassion had caused everyone’s troubles in the first place. Was that the Crystal’s whole lesson and test from the beginning? When UrGoh felt this old marauder’s heart breaking more keenly than they could feel their own— _because_ it wasn’t their own—even though it also absolutely was—were they seeing their original self…the way Thra had seen GraGoh?

Or the way Thra saw its countless children, who were kind and vicious, beautiful and ugly, yet all refractions of a single entity to which they always returned?

“When I see this,” the Wanderer told the Heretic, not touching the nail itself, but ranging near it, “it comforts me. One of my…few comforts here.”

SkekGra gave them an utterly disbelieving look, but didn’t argue yet. They knew more was coming eventually.

“Because…I feel proud. Not of us…but of you.” UrGoh lowered their hand again, taking the Skeksis’ cool talons in their long fingers. “This is the price…you knew you’d pay…for speaking truth to the cruel.”

“ _We’d_ pay,” whispered the Heretic.

UrGoh shook their head. They knew SkekGra felt deep guilt by association for what their fellows had done to both of them. This, however, was not a point to let go of. “And that you…must now also _wear_ …as the brand set upon you.”

SkekGra turned towards the UrRu, head still bowed; _now_ they were going to argue. UrGoh took the opportunity for a gesture that any Mystic would find intimidating—but was evidently a sign of trust, such as trust was, between Skeksis. At least, they’d seen two of the Skeksis, that lacy perfumed one and the very fat one, doing it as they chuckled and murmured odd little insulting nicknames at each other. The Wanderer butted the middle of their nose right against the spine of the Heretic’s beak, with just enough force to make an audible tap, then slid and maneuvered slightly until they had the closest possible eye contact without any danger to wounds or headgear. (This was harder when their eyes were set in front and Skekgra’s on the sides, but by leaning away they found the right focal distance for the thing.)

The Heretic startled, then clearly thought they were beginning another nuzzle such as Mystics were fond of, then had to correct course yet again with a little noise of surprise. The Wanderer had captured their dark half’s undivided attention.

Satisfied, they continued on at their preferred pace: “What the Conqueror…conquered…this time…was that fear which…still haunts the other Skeksis…and strangles…this beautiful world.” Their lips didn’t smile, but their eyes crinkled. “And of this conquest…I am…very proud.”

SkekGra had lately (and _often_ ) been saying that the most wicked UrRu sorcery was a Mystic’s capacity to leave their Skeksis dumbfounded. Their only reply now was an over-bright gaze, which more than sufficed. UrGoh batted the beak-tip away with a little shrug of the nose.

“Besides. What pretty bird…can’t do…with another ornament?”

The Heretic blinked and gaped at that, but it was no longer the desired kind of stupefaction. A note of indignation, almost betrayal, rapidly entered their cracking voice.

“You—say all that...and then you mock me?”

UrGoh frowned in dismay. This _had_ been going well— “…No?”

“I thought I was hideous,” retorted the Skeksis.

UrGoh’s eyes widened. Oh, that conversation. A world and an age ago. That was not the Heretic, and definitely not the same Wanderer. It felt like arguing about something GraGoh had done.

“I changed my mind…about that…some time ago,” protested the UrRu in their meekest tones. “Could you not...tell?”

 _“HOW WOULD I TELL IF YOU DIDN’T SAY IT??”_ SkekGra fairly shrieked.

“Right,” UrGoh nodded readily. “Not…one…yet. My…mistake.” They offered their arms.

The Heretic drew back in high dudgeon for all of a couple seconds, then sank down into the embrace with one of those little grating _skraaks_ that, in the Wanderer’s view, completely obviated any claims to their _not_ being a bird. Mighty Conqueror, indeed.

“Urf. Four-armed Mystic hug.” SkekGra was a bit muffled by their other half’s flowing shirt and coat-harness, though the UrRu could hear and feel the warm air of a relaxed sigh from the bundle of sticks gathered to their chest. The Heretic then added for UrGoh’s edification, with a very unconvincing huff, “Something no Skeksis in their _right mind_ would accept.”

“Exactly,” said UrGoh. That underwent a moment’s inspection, but the Heretic was much too far gone not to let it slide.

“Heh.” They raised their head out of the billowing cloth just enough to point out: “ _Now_ I’m a ‘pretty bird’? You’re a lunatic too, you know. Utterly cracked in the head.”

The Wanderer grunted in deepest contentment. Fresh fruit, smokes, even back rubs, could all wait a while.

“Exactly,” they said again.

**Author's Note:**

> NB 1: This is another prose draft for what will hopefully, very eventually, be in the comic version as well. ^^
> 
> NB 2: I have not yet read any of the YA novels or any comics beyond *Creation Myths*, so I am blithely making up some shit where there are gaps in the canon I'm aware of. If I'm missing stuff in UrGoh's commentary on Gelfling clans, especially the Dousan and their desert, lemme know!
> 
> Added benefit of posting these drafts: I am not beholden to a comprehensible timeline, and can skip around the outline the way I always do in the backstage process in any writing project, be it intended for an eventual polished presentation or no. Most liberating!
> 
> ...Also, quirky internal UrRu narration, which mostly can't happen in the comic format. :-)


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